The Properties of Copper
by Laura W
Summary: A post-Endgame drabble inspired by a photo that popped up on tumblr a while back. J/C.
**NOTE** : Inspired by a photo of Kate draped across a dresser wearing a copper shift dress and a come-hither expression.

"The Properties of Copper"

Everything he sees is copper.

Copper figures on the fountain that dominates the resort grounds, copper accents on the fixtures in the lobby, copper kettles gleaming in the brewery just beyond the bar, copper liquid swirling in a glass.

He knows a little bit about copper from this scientific and archaeological studies. Symbol: Cu from the Latin _cuprum_ , Old Atomic Number 29. Soft, malleable copper, the first metal to be worked by man, a conductor of heat and electricity, a trace mineral essential to the survival of every human being.

Everywhere he looks, all is copper. It's been this way all night.

A copper shift dress, flowing with every move of muscle over bone, tantalizing him with subtle shimmers of reflected light.

Copper curls complementing stormy blue eyes, copper earrings dangling against pale skin, copper lips turned up in a knowing smile.

Copper is the only hue he can see now. The stark red and icy silver of the woman with whom he arrived at the event were forgotten the moment he entered the ballroom and caught his first glimpse of _her_ , wrapped in warm, glinting copper.

He knows she's in his room before the door closes behind him.

The light from the hallway flashes from the edges of the ornate picture frames and shimmers in the folds of the copper dress clinging to the lithe, muscular body draped across the golden oak dresser. She's pulled the comforter, woven with copper threads, from the bed to cushion her repose.

He closes the door behind him and orders the lights to their lowest setting.

Without sparing her much more than an appraising glance, he crosses to the room's well-stocked bar and pours himself a brandy. The liquid is all copper and gold in the low light. He takes a long drink and lets the alcohol settle in his belly, warm and bright.

"What would you have done if she'd come back to my room with me?" he asks without preamble, leaning against the bar.

"She wasn't coming back to your room with you."

"What makes you so sure?"

She twitches an eyebrow at him and smiles knowingly. "Because I know you, and I know her. I'm not blind. I know there's nothing there anymore. I know you took separate rooms tonight."

He knocks back the rest of the brandy and pours himself another to buy himself a moment of time and maybe a modicum of balance. "Get the hell out, Kathryn," he says, only because he knows she expects him to.

"Is that really what you want?" She slides down from the dresser, copper shifting over flesh, and takes a slow step toward him. "Tell me, Chakotay. Do you even know what Seven was _wearing_ tonight?"

He grips the glass in his fist and turns his back to her. "Something red," he says. "Silver jewelry."

"Very good. Your observational skills have always been above average. Now tell me…" He hears her soft footfalls against the plush carpet. "What am _I_ wearing?"

Copper. Copper coloring his every vision, his every emotion, warm copper that begs to be touched and worked and molded. He closes his eyes. "Damn it, Kathryn, you're enjoying this."

She chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends an electric jolt to the base of his spine. "Why shouldn't I?" she asks. "You showed up with one of the most gorgeous women in the quadrant, but every time I turned around you were staring at me like a starving man faced with his first hot meal in months." When he doesn't respond, she reaches up under his jacket and runs her fingertips down his back. "Maybe _years_. Am I wrong?"

He shudders. "You know you're not."

"Well, then."

He places the glass on the bar and rests his hands flat beside them. He leans against the polished wood, head bowed. "I don't love her," he whispers.

She rests her cheek against his broad back. "I know."

"She says she loves me, but I don't think she even understands what it means."

He feels her nod against him. "She wanted you to teach her."

"I can't."

Her arms slide around his waist and she presses her body to his for the first time. "Why not?" she asks.

He turns in her arms and pulls her against him, hard, his big hands gripping her ass. "You know why."

She gasps at the contact. He fuses them together and thigh and belly and lips, swallowing her surprise with his kiss.

They sway together, nimble fingers moving aside clothing, callused hands caressing tender flesh, bodies rocking against each other. He yanks the comforter from the dresser and flings it on the floor before he lowers her to it, copper curls melting into copper threads, copper highlights glinting and sparking in his head. She cries out his name, and the taste of her against his tongue is copper. He fills her over and over again, copper conduit of heat and electricity, copper in his hands, copper softening and bending to take the shape of his pleasure.

She drapes herself across him and he pulls the comforter around them both. They will need to talk about this in the morning, talk about the timing and the impulse and the implications for the future. But for now, he is content to hold her in the low light. He wills himself to stay awake so that he can listen to her breathe. It is a contented sound, peaceful and even.

Later, he dreams of copper canyons, warm laughter and cool evening breezes. He dreams of adobe walls rising against a stormy blue sky, rooms full of meaningful antiques and new things he will build himself. He dreams of the beautiful masterpieces they will create together. He dreams of footprints, some large and sure, some small and tentative but bolder with each passing season, fleeting impressions in the copper-colored sands.

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End file.
